


fight like it's going out of style

by blithelybonny



Series: call me son (one more time) [4]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anger, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Power Imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: On Jack's Cup Day, Bob spends the day with the wrong son.





	fight like it's going out of style

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to SummerFrost for the beta-work and infinitely helpful suggestions on wrangling this mountain of pain. <3
> 
> Title is from Hamilton.
> 
> I'm...sorry.

Bob hasn’t felt this close to boiling over since his playing days, except for that every single day since Kent first got on his knees there’s been anger simmering under his skin—anger at Alicia for leaving, anger at Kent for staying, and anger at himself for being too weak to drop his gloves and go anymore.

“Fucking obvious,” Kent mutters, but he’s too close for Bob to pretend he didn’t hear.

Kent had shown up at the house four days after the Aces got swept out of the playoffs in the first round with only a few days’ worth of clothes and his cat under his arm, and while he’d briefly fucked off to Toronto for a bender with Matt and Andy Troy that had coincided perfectly with the Falconers’ six-game Final series, he’d made himself happily and frustratingly at home ever since.

(Bob’s stopped counting the number of times he’s been awakened in the morning by the tight, wet heat of Kent’s mouth on him, or the number of times he’s been awakened in the middle of the night by Kent shuddering and twitching against him as he fought off the myriad demons in his dreams.)

They’re sitting together in the family room, and Kent’s migrated from one end of the couch to practically in Bob’s lap over the course of scrolling through Jack’s Instagram chronicle of his Cup day, while Bob stares unseeingly at the television and tries to ignore the rising suffocation.

“Who?” Bob asks.

Kent tips his phone up so Bob can see the screen. It’s a short video of Jack and all his Samwell friends at their frat house. Jack’s flushed and laughing, looking happier than Bob’s ever seen him, even during the halcyon days in the Q before the pressure and the anxiety and the pills that dulled things just enough for Jack to make it through the day. One arm is hooked around Bitty’s neck, and the other extends a Solo cup that Shitty fills for him with something lurid-looking out of the Stanley Cup.

“He’s where he should be,” Bob then says, after the video plays through a second time.

Kent snorts and plays the video a third time. “Everybody’s gonna figure him out, Bob. He’s fucking transparent.”

He gets what Kent’s insinuating, and more importantly, he gets what Kent is trying to do, but he rises to the bait anyway because maybe he’s spoiling for a fight too. “They’ve been together for over two years now, Kenny. Maybe Jack’s ready to show him off,” he says, as he pushes himself up off the couch and starts toward the kitchen to get another beer.

“Oh, what, so you win a fucking Cup and then you just magically wanna come out?” Kent snarks loudly.

Bob ignores it, and the kitchen door swings behind him. All that’s left in the fridge are a pair of shitty Carlings leftover from he can’t remember what, but he’s thirsty and annoyed enough to crack one open and down half of it before the kitchen door swings open again.

“I won _two_ fucking Cups and I’m still going to die in this goddamned closet, Bobby. Just like you,” Kent spits.

Bob sighs, “It’s not a competition—”

“—bullshit!” Kent cuts him off. He’s all twisted up with his anger, a feral cat whose tail’s been trodden on one too many times. “It’s fucking _literally_ a competition, Bob.”

“God _damnit_ , Kent, I am not any less proud of you just because my son won a Cup too!”

Kent’s eyes widen—they’re dark with anger or arousal or, knowing him so well, both—and then turn hard and suspicious. “Proud, yeah. I bet,” he murmurs. “Did you show Jack just how _proud_ you were?”

Bob slaps him.

Kent turns with the force of it, and his hands grip the island, white-knuckled and tight. His chest heaves as he pants out his exertion.

Bob lowers his tingling hand and trembles from head to toe. The beer can slips from his other hand and falls to the floor. There’s nothing left to spill.

He knows he’s never really been a good man—knows that despite his wins and despite all the tricky little goals he’s ever scored and despite whatever he’s tried to do to show to the public that he’s better, he’ll never be anything more than a goon. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want it, but it’s true.  
The only real good thing he’s ever managed is his son, and Jack is a fucking mess.

But no. No. Whatever mess Bob’s made of every other part of his life, he won’t allow his stain to spread anymore than it already has. Jack has rebuilt himself into someone stronger and more certain. Jack is his own man now.

It’s Kent who’s the mess.

God, _god_ , Bob’s so _ashamed_. It floods him hot and fierce and overwhelming. What has he become? What the hell has he allowed to happen? When did he surrender?

Slowly Kent turns his face back. There’s a bright red mark on his cheek, and it screams for Bob’s attention, but before Bob can say anything, before he can even begin to try to justify his behavior or apologize, Kent’s lip curls up in a smirk, and he says, low and violent, “Harder, Daddy.”

“Jesus! Fucking—fuck— _Crisse_!” The oaths punch themselves from Bob’s chest as he flinches backward and away. He slams hard against the refrigerator door, hears the contents rattle and something tip over, tinkling loud over the ringing silence in the room. 

A long moment passes before Kent drops fluidly to his knees and rests his hands on Bob’s thighs. He leans in to nuzzle his reddened cheek against Bob’s groin.

Bob lowers his hand to push Kent away. It stops atop Kent’s head and slinks into his hair, curling into the blond strands and tugging enough to elicit a soft moan from Kent’s lips. “Fuck,” Bob whispers, as his eyes close. He can’t look anymore.

“If you want to,” Kent offers.

“No,” Bob manages, over the hitch in his throat. “It’s done, Kenny. We’re done. It’s done.”

Kent bares his teeth, runs his tongue along the seam, and says, “Sure.”


End file.
